Chapter 2: Can't Sleep, Can't Breathe (Part 1)


Dire straits and dirty consequences.

An invitation to your personal disaster.

It's a point break. Another guilty conscience.

And I won't stop you until you get just what you're after.

- Digital Daggers (Can't Sleep, Can't Breath)


Draco Malfoy's urgent strides made his black robes rustle.

Flashes of moonlight pierced the heavily-draped windows along the dark corridors. With a flick of his wand, nothing but torchlight illuminated his way.

One of the duties of the Man of the House was to know his house like the back of his hand. Draco did just that. He knew every turn, nook, and cranny. Yet he wandered aimlessly around the halls for what seemed like an eternity, like a traveler lost in some distant wood.

A Slytherin values self-preservation in the midst of crisis, but in this case he was hurtling to his doom, nearing her bedroom with every step he took. Led by nothing but blind instinct and turmoil.

To delay this meeting was a defense mechanism already wearing thin. Still, he took the longest route to where his 'guest' was staying, taking every distraction along the way. He paused to admire a painting, inspect a statue, and tried to avoid a window crack. He savored these time-wasters.

Draco couldn't avoid the major problem in his household, in the shape of a bushy-haired, know-it-all swot of a female. He could feel her presence, like a grain of sand at first; but as he neared her, the sand slowly accumulated to form a raging sandstorm.

Presto relocated her to the wing farthest from his. Good. The last thing he wanted was Hermione Granger finding out his secret. Draco sighed, hoping these thick walls could prevent an annoying, meddlesome, little muggleborn Gryffindor from doing just that.

Except she would find out when she had the courage, or even just the sense of direction, to leave her room.

Courage? She had plenty of that.

While he, on the other hand, had nothing of the sort. He's like he always was, even after nearly a decade.

At last, his legs reluctantly carried him to his destination. He imagined the possible scenarios he might face. What would he find waiting for him?

What had happened to Hermione Granger after all these years?

Draco sighed heavily. Imagination won't get him anywhere. Action would. There was no alternative. He had to face the woman on the other side of the door.

It was crucial - for both his survival and his sanity.

Draco could be called a fugitive, in his own way. His family's reputation was ruined after the war. But there was more to it than that. Far more dangerous reasons.

A few deep breaths passed his lips, yet he couldn't turn the doorknob. An unusual uneasiness possessed him even at that moment.

He grew up privileged, filthy rich even; born with a silver spoon jammed deep in his throat. In his school days, he was fearfully worshipped. His aristocratic good looks lightened his weightless burden even more.

Uneasiness did not suit him; nor did it come naturally to him.

Yet there was some unidentified expectation niggling at him. An expectation that belonged to a past life.

Maybe it was because he never saw anybody else - except select individuals and family - for the past five years since the war. He hid in these walls without a care for the outside world, and hadn't yet grasped the idea of being found.

It seemed that Draco had forgotten how to interact with other people that belonged in… the world out there. He'd forgotten how to act. More specifically, he'd forgotten how to act in front of a childhood nemesis.

Was there a handbook for recluses like him? A signed, leather-bound, edition of A Mechanical Handbook for Reclusive Enemies: How to Deal with Past Hates. He certainly needed that book.

Maybe if he came out of this unscathed, he'd write it himself.

The only thing he was certain of was the fact that this woman would either be his salvation or his undoing. She held his fate in her hands.

Not for the reasons one might think.

This isn't some silly love story.

—•—•—•—

He slid inside the creaking door.

The room was unremarkable enough. Unremarkable, considering it was one of the many quarters identical in design and furnishing in the mansion's Eastern Wing. Yet it wouldn't be considered as such if compared to other bedrooms in other houses.

It was dark, yet his eyes asserted no effort in being able to see. Instinctual, it could be said.

But there, seated on a chair, elbows resting on the desk, was Hermione Granger.

She was bathed in the silvery glow of raw moonlight from the undraped window facing the profile was visible from his position. The same untamed brown hair, intelligent forehead, wide brown eyes, slightly upturned nose, and stubborn chin. She stared at the moon intently, as if she was fascinated by its bright, waning globe.

Draco could relate. The moon, indeed, could be beautiful; yet deadly in its own right. It could transform something ordinary to extraordinary in a matter of minutes once under its ethereal light. It could also do the opposite under the same conditions.

Like Hermione Granger. She looked out of this world wearing the moonlight. Wearing what looked like... flimsy mauve nightclothes?

The idea of throttling a certain house elf crossed his mind. He told Presto to acquire clothes for their female 'guest'. How was he supposed to know the elf had taste? Or lack thereof. He drilled into his mind that in this case, Presto had no taste in fashion. Honestly, the nightie could be considered lingerie!

Draco did not fail to notice that Hermione Granger had grown up. She had come a very long way from the Hogwarts schoolgirl she once was.

She turned her head in his direction, snapping out of her reverie. The slight draft in the room blew a stray curl across her face.

"Hello? Is anybody there?" she gasped.

Draco came closer to the concentration of light that only she was illuminated by.

The flashing effect of their moving silhouettes was waking the monster he so desperately and painstakingly sound of her frantic heartbeats and the strong scent of wild orchids invaded his senses. Maybe this was a bad idea. Maybe this was a stupid idea of epic proportions.

'She feels like she's prey. Afraid and cornered,' the monster inside him purred.

He balled his fists, sweat moistening the crooks between his fingers. Those parts weren't the only ones sweating. His whole body was sweating buckets underneath his cloak.

Granger stood up, clutching the edges of the desk behind her. "Who are you?"

More of her erratic, unsteady, heartbeats.

The monster was pleased. So, Draco would have to be the killjoy he had always been.

"I am the Master."

—•—•—•—

Hermione stood very still. She pressed herself as far behind the desk as was possible.

There was someone in the shadows. His voice was…she felt a pull to it. It was deep, soft, and hypnotic. Her eyes started to drift shut.

No!

"Constant vigilance," her inner voice said.

She glared at the approaching figure, but she wasn't any braver than a mouse cornered by an alley cat.

"Show yourself!" she called out. "Step into the light!"

A robed figure materialized from the darkness. He wore a cloak that concealed every inch of his body. The white, neutral drama mask didn't allow her a glimpse of his face, either.

"I'm afraid I can't," he said.

It bothered her that the mouth of the drama mask wasn't moving as he spoke. Like talking to a reverse pantomime.

"Why?" Her voice quivered.

He was in front of her now. Closer than anybody would be comfortable with.

Yet there was something about the mysterious man that calmed her… lulled her... she couldn't explain it. Whatever that 'something' was, it muddled her mind.

There was nothing scarier for Hermione than losing her wits. It was enough to wake her from the trance he almost induced in her.

Hermione pushed him away with all her might. "Let me go!"

He toppled to the floor, his cloak flying with a rush of air. The mask was misplaced from his face.

Maybe it was her imagination, but she swore she saw a flash of gray eyes staring at her like he wanted to eat her alive. It sent chills down her spine.

The cloaked man growled inhumanly. "You shouldn't have done that."

Hermione didn't know what to do. The man was panting and his gloved hands were fisted so tightly.

"Are you okay?" she asked.

She dropped to her knees. He seemed to be writhing in pain. She should have tugged the mask away from his face and be done with this secret identity nonsense. But she didn't. Her hands steadied his shaking shoulders.

"Don't ever do that again!" he growled again. It was his turn to grab her shoulders. Except he grabbed them with lightning speed and animal-like strength. She whimpered as he pulled her under his weight, his legs restricting her movements.

His grip would surely bruise. She caught his eyes, gray circled with ever-widening violet.

"Please, don't hurt me."

She was pinned beneath him, unable to move from shock and fear. She, too, was panting, her breaths uneven and strained.

"Pleasepleasepleaseplease..."

She chanted the word in whispers. Closing her eyes, she anticipated an attack. Her heart thundered in her ears. It seemed to develop another beat, another speed, one that was foreign to her.

She felt his restraint in the way the tension coiled in his hands and arms that encircled her shoulder blades. He grasped her like a child holding a china vase who knew his mother would spank him if he dropped it. She wondered how much restraint this man had.

They stayed like that for a moment, both with heavy breaths and unmoving appendages.

"If you don't want to get hurt, you do as I say."

He was literally breathing down her neck. His breath was hot, yet his voice was cold. "Don't ever push me again. You're a bossy witch and you're used to getting what you want, but you're in my territory now. You bend to my rules."

Gone was the hypnotic charm. It was replaced by an aura of fear, magnified to an awfully threatening degree.

"Yes," she whispered.

"And next time, actually scrub when you take a bath. You stink."

She hear his sneer when he spoke. It couldn't be seen, and could have been interpreted as stern or even rude. But there was a familiarity to it that she couldn't quite remember - the information from the memory seemed elusive.

She stared at him dumbly. How did he know she didn't really take a bath? Does she really stink that much?

This man was becoming more obscure by the minute.

"How did you know I'm bossy?" It was a question born of curiosity.

It was met with silence. She prodded. "How do you know me?"

"The next rule," he countered, "is I ask the questions."

"No!" Her temper rose a centigrade. "I know my rights, sir. It's against the law to hold me captive against my will. If you let me go, and tell me where I can find Neville Longbottom, my colleague, I'll let it slip that we got lost and you helped us to navigate the roads, not that you took me without my consent." Hermione was proud of herself for not allowing her nerves to take over and make her voice waver.

He laughed. A cruel, mocking laugh. It was as if she was offering him a deal worth nonsense. With friends like hers, kind but with a well-developed sense of ruthlessness, they would make this man suffer.

"My friends are world-class Aurors. They'll go to the extent of their powers to find us, and when they do you'll regret it." Her earlier calmness was replaced by a feral snarl.

He laughed at her again. "You haven't changed, Hermione Granger. You think you always have the upper hand. You think you're better than everybody else. I'm telling you now, your so-called rights are nothing. Potter and Weasley can't find you here."

She flushed in anger at his crude evaluation of her character, when clearly he didn't know her at all. She couldn't remember ever meeting a person this big-headed before. Not to mention rude!

Of course, there were so many in the world like him. There was, in fact, someone who almost fit this certain kind of infuriating arrogance. That certain someone was far away from Europe, so they say.

"Nobody, not even a self-important arsehole like you, can take those away from me," she retorted.

"Your rights are nothing," he repeated. He leaned towards her ear. "Not in this part of the valley."

He relinquished his grip on her arms and unhooked his legs that clamped hers together. His robes felt soft and expensive - much like the rest of the place - as it brushed against her bare skin.

The man took a long dragging breath. "Get up."

Hermione hadn't yet recovered from her daze. She slowly lifted her torso from the floor. Her hands massaged the sore flesh of her arms where his bruising grip held it. She felt his eyes on her, and that knowledge made her skin prickle.

"I'll show you where Longbottom is."

He straightened and brushed his robes as if he dirtied himself in the scuffle. When she didn't immediately move he said "I'll just leave him unconscious in the dungeon, then."

She turned her head sharply in his direction and glared. "You left him in the dungeons?" she hissed. She stood and scrambled to catch up with her captor as fast as her legs would allow.

The 'Master' was tall. She didn't realize how long and limber his legs were. Her own legs were shorter in comparison so she had to jog to keep up with him. The sound of their angry feet stomping against the floor of an otherwise quiet hall was deafening.

"You said, 'Not in this part of the valley.' What do you mean? Am I still in the Risle Valley?"

Her questions were ignored.

They traversed down winding staircases, more hallways, and even more dark passageways. His steps were swift and steady. He didn't stop or slow down for the female behind him, her breath huffing as she tried to match his strides.

When she finally reached his side, she yanked his arm. "Stop!"

He halted, looking down his nose at her like an adult patronizing a child.

Her fiery brown eyes were flashing with unadulterated fury. "What kind of monster are you?"


Revised:1-28-18.A big thanks to my alphas and betas(same people). Big shout out to Dorothy (dorothymalfoy) for the song rec! So what do you guys think? (I accept everything.)